A Chalice of Despair and Horror
by Anera527
Summary: A scene from Light to Darkness Break, written in English class. The final confrontation is coming between Voldemort and the Order, but one thing will decide the outcome- Harry Potter himself.


"_**A Chalice of Despair and Horror"**_

A/N: This is a moment of time in my story "Light to Darkness Break"- I wrote this for a writing assignment in English in my senior year of high school. My teacher complimented me on my ability and my "dark themes". I just have to ask you to read it and tell me what you think of it for yourselves! Should I continue writing "Light to Darkness Break", or should I just stop with it?

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-"_… Duty comes before pleasure… if, on the other hand, by steady and cool-headed application here and now you can finally secure his soul, he will then be yours forever—a brim-full living chalice of despair and horror and astonishment…"_

-Screwtape, to his nephew Wormwood, the Screwtape Letters

_It has been five years since the disappearance of Harry Potter from Wizarding Britain, and the Dark Lord Voldemort is gaining swiftly in power. The Ministry of Magic is crumbling beneath the vicious onslaught of the Death Eaters. Albus Dumbledore, the hero of the Light, lies dead at an unknown murderer's hands. In the battle held at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Severus Snape, spy for the Order of the Phoenix and a member of Voldemort's inner circle, is found out and captured by the Death Eaters. Finally, it is revealed who exactly has allowed all to come to pass—Harry Potter himself, having allied himself with the Dark Lord and become his most loyal follower._

_In an attempt to destroy the Order, Harry captures Hermione Granger, one-time friend and the girl he was bidden to torture almost three years before, and uses her as bait to lure the Order to Voldemort's hidden manor for one final battle that will decide the outcome of wizard-kind._

_It is clear, however, that the Order of the Phoenix will not give up without a fight…_

The sound of familiar footsteps on the cold stone floor of the dungeons woke Hermione from the light doze she was in, and instinctively she drew back, curling into herself in preparation of the continued torture that had become her lot. Her body ached and protested her abrupt movement, her muscles not yet recovered from the last bouts of the Cruciatus Curse, as the footsteps drew closer. The heavy wooden doors were thrown open and as the light temporarily blinded her, the lean, unruffled form of Harry Potter came walking into view. His robes were clean of Snape's blood from the night before, and the cold, malicious smirk on his face as he looked at her sent an unbidden thrill of fear down her spine.

"Restful night?" he asked her mockingly, his emerald eyes bright with sadistic amusement at the sight of her curled up on the floor. Held here in Voldemort's hidden manor, a prisoner and a Muggle-born at that, Hermione was showing her week as such—she had lost a large amount of weight already, bruises marked her skin, and her hair had started to grey from the amount of Crucios Harry had set upon her. She wanted to throw up on his shoes in answer, but she couldn't find the strength to do so. Her insides seemed to be twisted into knots, and she couldn't help the fear that rose up when seeing him. His smirk deepened with cold-blooded cruelty so that his eyes resembled stone, and there was a bone-chilling predatory gleam shining in them that froze her blood, and she realized she meant _nothing_ to him anymore and that he would happily do to her the same he had done to Snape. That hurt.

Harry sensed the drift of her thoughts. "What, nothing to say, Granger?" he asked her mockingly, seeing her flinch. "Strange. You used to be so talkative at Hogwarts." He cocked his head, his eyes searching hers until finally he shrugged to himself as if brushing off his confusion, and turned from her as she struggled with this new realization… that the young man before her, who had once been a close friend and a surrogate brother, cared _nothing_ for her at all anymore. She pushed down the tears that rose up at the thought, determined not to allow him the victory of seeing her tears.

"You realize it, don't you?" Harry asked her now—but there was no mocking tone in his voice now, no laughter. He seemed perfectly serious, and closer to his twenty years of age than he ever had before. He looked at her again. "You've finally realized that I'm not the person you once knew me to be." He shook his head. "The Harry Potter you knew is gone, Hermione. It's best you remember that."

She was tempted to ask him why, to break down and weep and beg him to tell her why he was like this, why he had allied himself with Voldemort and effectively damned his soul—but she knew the answer. She had known why since three years before when she had tried to reason with him, to draw him back to the Light, but she hadn't been able to. He'd been ensnared in Darkness for too long.

He moved over to Snape now, who was still unconscious. The makeshift bandages Hermione had torn from her clothes were soaked with blood, and he had not woken up since the night before when Harry had torn him up with the Sectumsempra Curse. She struggled to her feet now watching her former friend bend down with an almost curious look on his face.

"Don't—" she began through clenched teeth, her sadness swiftly turning to anger. What more could Harry want to do with the unconscious potions master?

Harry made an impatient gesture. "Oh, hush," he said coldly, back to being the man he had become. He waved his wand and the deep cuts etched into Snape's torso closed and healed. Harry climbed back to his feet in one graceful movement when Snape began to stir and turned back to her. "You are being brought before the Dark Lord," he told her, his eyes glinting maliciously. "Your petty Order friends were discovered coming this way, prepared for battle— no doubt to come rescue their damsel in distress. You will be in the audience chamber, both you and Snape, and there you will see the final battle of the Order of the Phoenix."

"Are you so sure about that, Potter?"

Snape's voice, pained and dazed but still its usual sneering self, caught both of their attentions. They turned to see Snape struggling into a sitting position, a fierce glower of hatred on his face. "Do you really think the Order will fall that quickly? They'll know something is wrong, and they'll be ready for what you and the Dark Lord have prepared."

But Hermione was suddenly reminded of a week before, when she had been captured again and Harry had revealed his plans for the Order's fate:

_-"They'll know something is up! They'll be ready for anything, anything, that Voldemort will try and throw at them! Don't think the Order isn't prepared!"_

_-"Are they prepared to see _me_? Will they be ready to face the famous Harry Potter, believed to be dead these past five years?"_

They weren't, and when it was discovered, Hermione knew it would be too late to run. The Order of the Phoenix would fight despite all—they'd only survive by the grace of God.

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The audience chamber in Voldemort's hidden manor was just like everything else in it—a large, spacious room heavily veiled in shadows, with a tall arching ceiling and thin windows that let in very little light. It was old and intimidating, even frightening, to look at.

As was the man residing within it. As Hermione and Snape were lead roughly inside, she forced herself to keep calm and not show fear. She was a Gryffindor, after all, and she was proud to be one. Braver individuals, however, had trembled before the Dark Lord Voldemort, and she felt her knees weaken slightly at the sight of Voldemort's snake-like face; he looked as frightening as he had been three years before, with grey scale-like skin, glowing red eyes, and a thin, lipless mouth that even now curled up into a feral, deadly amused smile that sent a shiver of fear shooting down Hermione's back. He was seated on a large chair of black marble he seemed to think a throne, stroking his wand slowly, and he straightened when seeing his prey. "Ah, Harry," he said in a soft, cold voice. "You've brought them."

Hermione watched with a horrified heart as Harry bowed low on one knee like all were bidden to do, inclining his head respectfully before standing again. "Of course, my Lord," he replied just as quietly, yet his voice seemed to carry in the wide chamber. "I would not disobey your orders." He certainly hadn't before, not through his harsh training, not when Hermione had been captured three years before, and definitely not when he had gone to kill Dumbledore seven months ago.

Snape sneered mentally to himself. He had witnessed Potter's sickening loyalty to the Dark Lord since the first day of his capture, and he was far from impressed with either of them. _He_ certainly felt no loyalty to the monster that he had spied on for nineteen years.

_-"You must be proud of yourself. You killed the mother and now you've claimed the son."_

_-"Oh, I've done more than claimed him, Severus. He is _mine_, mine completely."_

He felt no sympathy for Potter, either, who had turned his back fully on the Light and therefore slapped Lily Potter's sacrifice from nineteen years before in the face. So ironic, that. It made him want to laugh sardonically. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was joining Potter and Voldemort in madness.

"As you both know," Voldemort said now to Hermione and Snape, "the Order of the Phoenix is coming to recue you." He scoffed. "Imbeciles. They will die and then you both will join them—unless you want some extra _fun_ with the Mudblood, Harry?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat in horror, but Harry shook his head, standing quietly now beside Voldemort.

"Very well. Have a seat, my darling Mudblood," the Dark Lord purred mockingly at Hermione, who went pale. "You must have a front row seat to see the destruction of the Order." When she still refused, Voldemort did not speak again, he merely smiled evilly and waved his wand—

Then suddenly Snape was there, blocking the curse with his own body. The strength of the spell knocked him cleanly off his feet and he flew back into the wall, instantly unconscious, limp as he fell to the floor in a heap. Before Hermione could do anything more than look in shock at the potions professor and realize the sacrifice he had somehow decided to spare her with, Voldemort had waved his wand again and with a small squeak of horror she felt ropes wrap around her arms and legs so that she could barely move. She collapsed painfully on the steps.

"Foolish man," Voldemort said, shaking his head. "He used to be so smart, but now? Ha! protecting a Mudblood from harm!" He laughed to himself for a moment, then quieted when suddenly a young Death Eater came stumbling into the room, almost tripping over his robes. "What is it, boy?" he hissed.

"M-my Lord," the Death Eater stammered. "T-the Order is here, under disguises, w-wishing for entrance."

"Well then, go and let them in," the Dark Lord ordered, and the boy fairly rushed to do so. Only minutes passed before fifteen Death Eaters herded in a group of almost thirty people, their features shadowed and unrecognizable. A few openly paused when seeing Snape lying on the floor, and one visibly tensed when seeing Hermione lying upon the steps, looking gaunt and exhausted, but then they all relaxed into an act of trembling, awed people seeking an audience with the Darkest Lord in decades. Some were hooded and cloaked, but about half were bare-faced. Although none were recognizable, Voldemort knew this was the Order of the Phoenix—Harry had indeed been right when saying that they would come to rescue the Mudblood girl—and he was prepared to battle them, but there was something suddenly bothering him. He was sensing some sort of strong magical signature he had never sensed before from an Order member, a type of quiet, powerful strength that he could tell could become a terrible problem.

He hid his vague unease behind a death-like smile that served to drop the temperature in the audience chamber. "My Death Eaters tell me that you have a request for me," he lied smoothly, eager to begin bloodshed.

One of the strangers, a cloaked one, stepped forward. "Actually, my Lord," came a young, deep voice that still stumbled and stuttered with fear, "we have a request _and _an offer."

The entire audience chamber went completely still and silent. Voldemort cocked his head, his confusion deepening as he sensed the strength of this young man. Seated prone upon the steps, still bound tightly from head to foot, Hermione looked up into the eyes of the guest standing there and nearly cried from relief. She glanced over at Snape's inert form, her heart pounding, hoping the potions professor was still alive. Standing behind her, Harry sensed the shifting of attention, the slight, imperceptible changing of odds, and drew his own wand slowly so that no one noticed. Something told him from that deep, calm voice that he knew this stranger.

"And what might your name be, my brave lad?" Voldemort asked finally; he seemed to settle on the belief that everything was still in his power and now settled deeper into his seat, allowing a cruel smile to spread across his face.

"My Lord," the stranger said timidly, his head bowed as he seemed to shake from awe and fear. "My Lord, I and my companions have traveled far to come before you and see your face. I- I must be truthful—I've always dreamed about serving you, mighty as you are. But, my Lord… I must tell you…" And suddenly the man straightened and threw back his hood, revealing, to many of the Death Eaters' shock, the face of Neville Longbottom, but not a Neville they knew. This Neville Longbottom was tall and muscular, not bulky, with a strong, calm stature, so unlike the childish student Harry recalled from Hogwarts, struggling with his clumsiness—now he looked like a man, with a bearded face and wise brown eyes. He was the secret weapon of the Order of the Phoenix, the one with the potential of the Chosen One, grown into his power and strength through training and hard work.

He was everything Harry Potter could have been.

"I have heard the prophecy, my Lord!" Neville shouted now in a thunderous voice, and from his robes drew his wand. At his cue, others in the cloaked crowd shed their own disguises, Glamour Charms fading, hoods drawn back, revealing different familiar faces; all the remaining Weasleys, including Ron, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Seamus Finnagin, Dean Thomas… almost twenty others.

"I have heard the prophecy, Voldemort!" Neville repeated, in a voice of steel, "and I tell you now—your reign will end today!"

Hermione almost expected Voldemort to respond with the typical Muggle response—"We shall see."—that she'd heard in so many Muggle films. But this was not some Muggle movie of actors and actresses pretending and following a script, protected from whatever happened to go wrong—this was real and completely lethal as Snape had so recently proven.

The response to Neville's challenge was immediate. With roars of outrage, Death Eaters rose and brandished their own wands. Furious, Harry moved to attack but with a swift movement Voldemort stopped him.

"Let them make the first move," he hissed quietly in Parseltongue, and then turned back to Neville, a frankly frightening look on his face. "And what is your _offer_, Longbottom?" There was more danger in that one sentence than anything else he had ever said yet. There was no doubt in his mind—he would kill this brat, make him scream in agony as he flayed the skin from his bones as he split him open like a slaughtered animal.

Neville looked at him impassively—if he was affected by the Dark Lord's tone, he did not show it. "My offer is the only thing that may save your life: Surrender now to us, and let us leave with Hermione and our potions professor."

"And if he doesn't?" Harry suddenly asked, a dark look in his suddenly shadowed eyes. The gazes of the Order all settled upon him at once and all had the same reactions—they all paled, some cried out in shock while others gasped. They had not clearly noticed him until now and like Hermione had known, they were all terribly shocked, properly horrified by the revelation that Harry Potter had not really been dead after all but in reality working for their worst enemy. Ron, standing on Neville's left, went so pale even the freckles mapped across his face lost their color, and he stumbled back slightly.

"H-Harry?" he breathed, looking faint.

Harry smirked, but it was a dead expression that turned his familiar features into a mask. "Hello, Ron." The mocking tone made Hermione shiver. "Come to recue your poor damsel? Shame on you, Weasley—you took your own sweet time getting here while she was tortured."

It didn't take Ron to put all the pieces together, and his shock quickly gave way to mindless anger. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed, and to the surprise of all he charged his former best friend, wand utterly forgotten, intent only on Muggle brawling.

Harry had no such intentions. When Ron was in range, he struck out and landed a single punch across the redhead's face, then flipped him over his back. With a snarl, he flicked his wand to end Ron's life, looking remorseless—

And Neville's Shield Charm sprang up between them, so strong that Harry fell back. A follow-up spell was sent his way as he picked himself up, but a Death Eater attacked Neville at the last instant. All hell broke loose, Death Eater pitted against Order member. Ron, panting slightly from his fury and his blue eyes wet, picked himself up and went to Hermione's side, protecting her from harm as Voldemort entered the fray, releasing her from her bonds and swiftly dragging her to a more sheltered spot.

"Stay here!" he ordered her, frightened by her ragged appearance and grey-streaked hair. Then he was gone, diving head-first into the fray, aiming for Harry, who was dueling with a pink-haired Tonks. At the same instant there came a swift, blue-colored spell Harry's way from Kingsley's wand.

"Come here, boy!" he shouted. Remus Lupin, his heart heavy, stood waiting beside him. "Come and fight me if you are not so much of a coward!"

Harry answered with a furious snarl of rage and blasted Tonks into the wall, then ran after Kingsley and Lupin as they disappeared down a hallway.

Hermione, meanwhile, had disobeyed Ron's direct order and slowly crawled along the wall to where Snape still lay. She ducked curses that blew chunks of wall into the air and rained dust and rubble onto her; at one point she narrowly missed a Death Eater's attention, and it was very slow-going to finally reach his side. Her shaking fingers found a pulse in the potions master's neck, and she swallowed, her heart flying. He was alive, Voldemort hadn't killed him!

"Hermione!"

Lupin's voice caused her to jump and she saw him come running up to her, his amber eyes cold with grief.

"Harry?" she asked, relieved that Lupin and Kingsley had survived.

Lupin swallowed hard. "Taken care of," he answered, and his voice cracked. "He fell from a window…" He did not have the strength to continue. He had cared for Harry so much, he had been James Potter's best friend, and now he had helped kill his son.

Neville, meanwhile, had been chosen to fight the Dark Lord, and Voldemort was proving hard to kill. He fought like a snake and with the ferocity of a tiger, determined to kill the child who had so dared to challenge him. He barely noticed as, one by one, his Death Eaters fell at the Order's fury. The fighting rocked the audience chamber and the wards surrounding Voldemort's hidden manor began to collapse with loud mournful groans, ripped asunder.

"What did you do to Harry?" Neville shouted furiously at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort allowed a small smile of triumph. "I didn't do anything," he replied smoothly, knowing this answer would only serve to infuriate Neville further. "He made this choice himself."

He was right. The words were barely out of his mouth before Neville attacked him again, more ferociously than before. The boy was powerful, the Dark Lord admitted to himself, carefully trained, all raw power. There was no refined grace in Neville's movements like there was in Harry's, but it was still very efficient. It made him unpredictable, and that served to raise the Dark Lord's ire.

Another explosion shook the chamber, and this time parts of the walls collapsed. At that moment, Neville was hit over the head with a large chunk of rock, and the Dark Lord made his move—he turned to Apparate to a better vantage point. He should have known, however, that Neville could not be shaken off that easily, and so when he appeared on the balcony above his throne of black marble the Dark Lord discovered that the boy had followed him, blood dribbling down his temple from where he had been struck. In his hands, Voldemort noticed, Neville held the ruby-handled sword of Gryffindor, having pulled it from the Sorting Hat back at Hogwarts and brought it here for the battle.

"Not too late, Voldemort," the boy said. "You can still save yourself."

"I do not need saving!" the Dark Lord screamed furiously. How could this have happened? His manor's location had been betrayed, his Death Eaters all defeated, and now this imp was allowing him a chance of mercy! His fury escaping his hold, Voldemort lashed out with the Killing Curse, which Neville dodged. He followed it up with a second Killing Curse which served to push Neville closer to the edge of the balcony. He pressed forward, his glowing red eyes shining with bloodlust—

He stepped too close. Neville was fully prepared and quick as lightning the boy had grabbed the front of Voldemort's robes and he pulled them both over the edge. The rest of the Order watched in shock as the two of them fell, but could do nothing quickly enough before they had hit the ground. There was a sharp _crack!_ as the two landed painfully upon the steps.

Neville stumbled to his feet, feeling as if his ribs had just torn themselves apart—sprained, at least. But he did better than Voldemort, whose back had been broken from their fall. Gasping, his breath coming in rattling, painful inhalations, Neville grabbed the sword of Gryffindor from where it had fallen beside him and stood looking down upon his enemy.

"I hope you can deceive the Devil himself," he managed to say, "'cause I don't think there's even a place for you in Hell." And gathering his remaining strength, he brought the sword up and swiftly stabbed the Dark Lord in the heart. Voldemort screamed both in pain and hatred but he seemed unable to speak, although all present knew they would have received the worst tongue-lashing in their lives. The Dark Lord's body began to convulse and tremble as Neville yanked the sword and the Basilisk venom embedded in its blade began to take its toll.

But the Order had forgotten made one mistake during the fighting—always making sure that their enemies were dead. Even as Voldemort's life ended upon the steps of his audience chamber and the assembled Order members breathed out heavy sighs of relief, Harry suddenly came sprinting from the shadows, and what a sight he was! He was just as bloodied and bruised and dust-covered as everyone else, his robes tattered and soaked with blood. He looked demented with fury as he simply cursed Neville out of his way, deflecting five Stunning spells with a flick of his hand. Neville hadn't even hit the ground yet before four Order members fell, three supporting grievous injuries, one dead. With horror giving them adrenaline, the rest of the Order tumbled out of the way, struggling to gain some ground against the boy who had so suddenly appeared.

"I thought you'd taken care of him!" Hermione cried to Lupin and Kingsley from where she had ducked behind cover with Ron.

"I thought we had too!" Lupin replied, sending a curse at Harry's back as the enraged twenty-year-old battled Mad-Eye; he had to duck to keep his own deflected curse from hitting him instead.

Hermione bit her lip: Mad-Eye was being backed up against the wall, seven Order members lay dead or dying, Snape still lay unconscious on the floor.

Snape…

That was it! Hermione's eyes hardened with determination and she turned to Ron, hurriedly snatching his wand from him. Giving no one time to react, she sprang to her feet and leapt from cover. Harry, of course, saw her immediately.

"Mudblood!" he snarled at her, still dueling with Moody.

"And proud of it!" she exclaimed. Her response had not been said to provoke him, but it did. In the space of an instant, he had suddenly blown Moody off his feet and turned to her fully intent on murder.

Hermione was ready. Although powerful and a lethal wand dueler, Harry was unprepared for Hermione's power and speed, and the single curse she had already wordlessly sent his way.

_Sectumsempra!_ The curse was a specialty of Snape's, she knew, one that she had overheard the Order using on Voldemort. She used it now, and she remarkably caught Harry with it; even as she watched, his foot was slashed open from the curse, even through his boots, and it distracted him with pain. He didn't yell like so many would have, but he _did_ utter a pained cry and turn his wand to her.

It was the opening she had been looking for. Even as he spun towards her, somehow ignoring his maimed foot, she sent a Burning spell his way, and it hit his hands. She pressed her advantage then, seeing that he was now suddenly wandless.

But Harry was not defenseless. Even without his wand he could erect a Shield Charm to deflect the spells she sent his way. Distracted as he was, however, and undoubtedly weakened by his wounds, it gave the rest of the Order room to attack. The ensuing fight was quick but brutal, ending finally when Seamus Finnigan, thinking quickly, toppled a bit of wall on their adversary, and Harry was driven to the ground.

Silence reigned, but for the crackling of fires as the Order members slowly emerged from their cover. No movement was seen from where Harry's motionless form lay, and they all managed to relax slightly. Even as the dust settled, Lupin, closest to their foe, spotted the sword of Gryffindor and, keeping his wand drawn, slowly approached and gingerly picked up the bloodied sword.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

The voice shocked everyone, and Lupin was hit full on by the Killing Curse, and he was flown into the air where he landed, already dead, still grasping the sword. Unable to process what they were seeing, the Order turned to the one possible answer—sure enough, they saw Harry somehow standing, gathering strength from _somewhere_. They watched in stunned disbelief as Harry grabbed the sword of Gryffindor from Lupin's motionless form and straightened again. Even Neville felt a thrill of fear at the sight of the tall, wiry body stand, covered in blood and dirt, his burnt hands red and raw, limping on a mangled foot. His lightning scar had opened and was pouring blood down his forehead, and he looked mad as he turned to look at them. Animalistic fury, uncontrolled brutality, was evident on every line of his face; Hermione swore she saw his eyes flash red.

"Bastards," he snarled in a voice heavy with hate, and he dropped the sword to the ground. With one swift movement which still somehow managed to be graceful despite his grievous injuries, he sent one curse to the ground that caused a tremendous explosion that shook the remaining structure of the audience chamber. When the Order members were finally able to see again, they met a horrifying sight: the sword lay shattered upon the ground and Lupin's body burned itself out on the floor beside it. Harry had Disapparated and fled.

~Why was there so much pain? Where did it come from?... _The pain comes from more than the facts of circumstance, or the deeds of others. It comes from within. From understanding what we've lost._

_It comes from knowing how foolish we were—vain, arrogant children—when we thought ourselves happy._

_It comes from knowing how fragile and doomed the old ways were, just when we thought them, and ourselves, secure._

_The pain comes from knowing we have never been safe, and therefore will never be safe again. It comes from knowing we can never be so ignorant again. It comes from knowing we can never be children again._

Losing innocence. Remembering Heaven.

That was the essence of Hell.~

-"Heaven and Hell", John Jakes


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